


From the Ashes

by bactaqueen



Category: Star Wars, Star Wars: New Jedi Order Era - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 03:29:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/657554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bactaqueen/pseuds/bactaqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prequel to "The Master Beneath Me." After an emotionally charged day, Jaina Solo finds herself torn between two men.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From the Ashes

**Title:** From the Ashes  
 **Author:** bactaqueen  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Disclaimer:** All characters copyright their respective owners. "Star Wars" copyright George Lucas. No profit is being made, no infringement intended. A scene from Aaron Allston's  Enemy Lines I: Rebel Dream has been borrowed for the purposes of this story. Again, here, no profit is being made and no infringement is intended.  
 **Summary:** Prequel to "The Master Beneath Me." After an emotionally charged day, Jaina Solo finds herself torn between two men.  
 **Author's Note:** "From the Ashes" is the prequel to "Master." It explains how Jaina and Kyp came to be in the position they were in. It also deals implicitly with Jaina's darker--human--side. The two stories were not meant to be alternate universe fics. They were meant to show what was going on behind the scenes; when she was with Jag, she was with Kyp, too.

 

 

We're in the conference room he's chosen. Tears stream down my face, hot, wet evidence of my own weakness. I wish it wasn't him standing here. I might be able to handle it all if he was someone else, anyone else. Because weakness before Jag means I've failed in a spectacular way. He doesn't respect weakness. He can't respect me. And he can't follow a leader he can't respect. He's going to leave. I know it. I'm going to lose him. There's nothing I can do about it. He nearly died today to save me, and here I am. Crying and babbling like a child. Making less sense than an infant.

_they all go away I try I try I can't stop it I lose them all_

His arms close around me and he draws me closer. My legs give out on me, suddenly, and I collapse against him. The support he's giving only makes me cry harder. He's holding me. Letting me cry. No one's ever just held me and let me be. His hand cradles my head as my tears soak the front of his perfect black uniform. He tells me he won't go anywhere. He doesn't want to.

He tucks a finger under my chin and tips my face up. This is it, then. He's going to tell me to dry my tears and grow up. Stop being a baby. This is no way for a commander to behave, much less a goddess. He'll reconsider what he's said. He'll drop his arms, turn around, and walk out that door. He'll resign from the squadron. I'll never see him again.

I ponder that fate as his mouth descends on mine. His mouth, warm and solid, sends a jolt of surprise through me. He isn't reacting to me, to the day, at all like he's supposed to. But gods, I've wanted this...

I'm suddenly aware of him. His body fits against me. His arm tightens around me, protectively or possessively, and he draws me nearer. His fingers curl against my chin, tipping my face up and my head back.

I clutch at him, open my mouth to his. Greedy, I want to know his taste. No, I need to know his taste. If this is the only kiss I'm getting... He crushes me closer. There's a flare of passion, of desire, and it spikes through the Force. I don't know if it belongs to him... or to me. It doesn't matter.

He eases away, withdrawing from the kiss with care. My eyes closed, I draw a long, shaky breath. Jag places his hands on my shoulders and quite firmly pushes me away from him. I dread opening my eyes and finding regret written on his face. Or worse, nothing.

But I do it. I open my eyes.

His pale green gaze is serious. "I think you should get some rest," he says in that perfectly reasonable voice.

I'd like for him to pull me close and let me rest my head against his chest. I'd like to listen to his heart beat as I fall asleep in his arms.

I begin to shiver. Not from the cold, but because I'm suddenly, terribly tired. I'm exhausted. It's been a long and trying day--and I have nothing left in me. I'm drained. "Wedge wants to see me," I manage.

His voice is steady and devoid of emotion when he argues. "You've been through a lot today. I don't think you should see Wedge. You go get some rest. I'll talk to my uncle and straighten things out."

"Generals don't get straightened out."

Jag's quick smile is characteristically subtle, but it does not reach his eyes. "I'm a colonel. I can respectfully disagree until he sees things my way."

I want to laugh. I should laugh. But mostly, I just feel the wonderful sensation of a weight being lifted from my head. A weight I hadn't known was there. And relief courses through me. My eyes drift closed. "Thank you, Jag."

He draws me in for a quick hug. His lips touch my forehead, a bare brush. "Rest, Jaina. Feel better." He kisses me one last time, nothing more than lips sliding against lips, and he is gone.

I'm alone in this conference room, all too abruptly without support. And I'm so tired. My fingers grope for the table I know is behind me, and I find it. I sink to the edge, too tired to find a chair, too tired to move. I feel the light from the corridor falling on my closed eyelids and think that my own bed will be more comfortable than the conference table. Wearily, I push myself away from the table and lurch toward the door. I turn left instead of right, accepting the decision to let Jag fight this battle for me. My vision blurs as I make it to the turbolifts, and I barely manage to keep my balance as I press the button to call the lift.

Inside, I let the wall take my weight as the car carries me up the many stories. The cheerful ding is entirely too loud. It announces my floor. The doors open, and I barely manage to avoid stumbling. I want to grope for the wall, for support, for a warm hand to hold mine. For the first time in longer than I care to remember, I want my mommy.

But Mommy just left the system with somebody else's brats. Mommy's taking care of someone else, not her own and only daughter. There's bitterness at that, but the emotion doesn't last long. I don't have the energy.

The corridor is too long. It is empty. I stop for a moment beside I door I know--but how do I know it? I stare at it to give my brain something to do while my body recovers for the next leg of the journey. Suddenly, I feel it.

I am not the one who's tired. I am not the one who is drained damn near to the point of death. He is--Kyp is. He's behind this door, wrapped in a tight shield, in a shallow healing trance, and he's going to kill both of us. The selfish bastard.

I pass a trembling hand over the door's pad, and it slides away. As the barrier is gone, I feel his weakness even more acutely. It isn't me who's so tired, so weak. I step into the room. Afternoon sunlight is faint--Pyria is a weak star. Gray shadows slide and pool. He is laying on his back on the wide bunk, still in full flight gear. If I had the energy, I'd glare. It looks like he came in, collapsed, and barely had time to settle himself before he fell into a bad healing trance. He didn't even lock the door.

I do. I don't want to be interrupted.

My body feels heavy and the air feels thick. It's like I'm trying to swim through bacta. Slowly, I make my way to the foot of his bunk. I yank off Kyp's boots and let them fall to the deck. I am not being gentle. And he is not stirring. Next come the flight restraints, and I am even less gentle with those. My fingers feel thick, stubby, not dexterous enough. Clasps and buckles are strange, unfamiliar things. It takes time, but I manage to discard the straps.

Like most pilots, he wears a weapons belt. Sith, I'm still wearing my weapons belt. But that later. My eyelids are heavy, drooping, so I let them close. I'm not going to fall asleep now and I know that. I have a mission, an objective, and I always work better with an objective in view. My fingers find the edge of his belt and keep going until I find the buckle. Next come the straps around his thigh to be rid of the blaster holster. I don't check to see if the weapon's safety is on. If it isn't, and I blast my Master a brand-new hole, he'll just have to live with it. Or not.

He is bleeding weakness all over me. His energy is gone. I can feel that. If I search, I can feel where he is concentrating what's left of his energy, and I know again that he is too close to cheat death on his own this time. To save me. To save Jag for me. For me.

Slowly, so slowly, I discard my own boots and flight straps and weapons belt. If I must stay, I will be comfortable, and if he has any complaints about the Goddess falling asleep in his bed, he can suck exhaust. I stretch out beside him, feeling the relief of lying down. I spare only a moment to relish the feel of the mattress beneath me, the pillow under my head. Eyes closed again, I take several deep, calming breaths.

He has sacrificed himself to save me. I can do no less.

I reach out with the Force, seeking the man in the body beside me. I've never had to search for him before--Kyp Durron is like a supernova in the Force, burning bright and hot. I can't find him.

So I reach out with my hands, and I find him. I scoot closer. Though the air in the room is warm, thick--it would be so easy to fall asleep--his skin is cold to the touch. And as soon as I press in beside him, I can sense him. I can sense that he's used the last of his strength to divert energy from all non-essential functions. He's regulated his heartbeat to pump blood slowly, and only through vital organs. His breathing is slow, deep. He has pushed himself into a healing trance.

But it is a poor healing trance. His control is no what it could be. There are cracks in the shields surrounding his heart and his lungs. His mental shields, his emotional shields, are weak.

I lay my head on his shoulder and let my eyes close once more. _Kyp, you fool._

I take several deep breaths again, seeking my own calm, my center. I reach down inside of me, I see that spark of energy that makes me Jaina, and I coax the spark into a flame. That flame surges and spreads, until I am a fire. Until I am my own burning energy. The Force swirls inside me, through me, and I can feel its cool, reassuring presence. The Force is Life. Life is the Force. There is not one without the other.

I lay one hand over Kyp's heart, palm down, flat on his chest. I expand my awareness to include him now. He is nothing. An ember in the ashes. I seek the cracks in the shields around his heart. I send in tendrils of the Force, to force those cracks open, and I send in strength to fortify his heart. The beat becomes stronger, more sure. I move through his body as his blood, using the Force to strengthen him. I offer him my own energy. The fire spreads through the link between us.

I have broken the barriers between us. All of them. He is defenseless before me. Everything he has hidden from me, in our bond, is laid out for me to see. His childhood, happy, back on Deyer. The night the stormtroopers came for his parents. Those first cold, lonely nights on Kessel, crying for his parents. For his brother. Long years that robbed him of his childhood and turned him into a man before most boys even think of it.

Then being saved, the joy, the expectancy, and the confusion. The first week at the Academy, and then the next, learning things, learning to use his power, knowing he was stronger, better, faster. Rejecting Master Skywalker, accepting the teachings and control of the Sith lord. Taking the Sun Crusher. Killing his brother. Wiping the mind of the creator of the Death Star. Sending his Master into a strange coma.

And more, after. The seemingly endless trials. The remorse. The guilt. The rage--his own brother! The long, lonely years after Han and Luke saved him from death, or worse, an eternity as a slave.

Miko. All the promise that young man had shown, the willingness to learn, to follow. His death--and another failure. Loss after loss, just blazing through the war, just wanting to win, to redeem himself, and meeting tragedy at every turn.

Sernpidal hits me in the gut like a sucker punch. Sernpidal. My own shields fall, and as the memories mingle, I can't be sure what belongs to him and what belongs to me. A dim, growing awareness of attraction and desire. Respect. And betrayal. Triumph, but bitter triumph. And pain. So much pain...

He is stronger. So am I. Sharing strength has restored us both, but shutting off this connection is nothing like shutting off the faucet in the sink. More images, more words, more feelings pour through the link between us, mesh, and still, I don't know what is him and what is me.

Guilt at Hapes, masking it with anger. Still more pain. And... reaching out, wanting to help. Unable to watch it, the slide to Darkness, unable to witness it. Needing to help. Needing to be. Needing to be needed. More desire--desire that surprised in its intensity. Wanting a body, wanting a memory, wanting a touch. Stifling it for the sake of propriety, for the rules between men and women. Stifling it for friendship. True friendship. Love that renders desire pure. Something perverse in that.

A cry escapes my lips, or maybe it's a gasp. The link is like iodine, painful and burning as it cleans the wound. I feel the tears again soaking my face, wetting my lips. I didn't know I could still cry.

There's so much between us. So much history. We've taken turns hurting each other. We've taken turns hurting each other because we want what we can't have. Oh, the universe has a sick sense of humor.

I expect it when he rolls to his side, when he gathers me up into his arms. When he pulls me close and I can feel every inch of him against me. When he doesn't say a thing, only lowers his head and claims my mouth.

He is nothing like Jag. He gives no pretense of gentle, of tender. He kisses me like he'll devour me whole, from the mouth down, and I don't hate it. I have no choice but to open up for him, and I don't resent it. I have no choice but to taste him, to be tasted by him. But with the violence, there is a sort of tenderness. Tenderness only he can have. He does care--it isn't just lust. But the desire is part of it, part of the love.

Eyes closed, fingers explore faces. And with the link open between us, I don't think we could get any closer, be any closer. He surprises me. He opens doors I didn't realize were closed. And into the link comes everything. Everything he feels, everything he is, everything he had for me. He lays his soul bare, opens his heart, and send he a ringing _Here I am. The good, the bad, and the ugly._

It only makes me love him more. I kiss him back, returning the favor, wanting to devour him whole. I take what he offers, and I stretch out with my own awareness. I wrap him in my forgiveness, my acceptance, everything I feel for him right now. And then I open up. I open doors, the same ones I have, the ones in the back that are left to tightly closed that I can't even get in. Out courses my own good, bad, and ugly. There are parts of me I don't like, I can't stand, I even hate. The part of me that is cold when it comes to my brothers. The part of me that wants to be a mess, to run screaming and sobbing to mommy and daddy. The part of me that knows the man in her arms is more than everyone says he is. The part of me that doesn't want to believe it.

He withdraws from the kiss reluctantly, and I'm not the only one crying. I feel his tears on my cheek, taste the salty wetness on my lips, and find that he has as much capacity for forgiveness as anyone I've ever known. I find myself wrapped in a warm blanket of absolution. Buyoed by acceptance and strength and... love.

We've hurt each other so badly. In so many ways. And yet... all the pain, all the tragedy, can be eased. It can go away. All we have to do is give in. All the wounds, the still-open wounds, the scabbed ones, even the scars, they can heal. All we have to do is accept.

He draws a long, shaky breath, and I realize he's trembling. He's shaking, and so's the bed, and so am I. His arms leave me, and I'm no longer in his circle of protection. But we're still linked. And when he raises trembling hands to the sealed neck of my flight suit, I don't stop him.

The seal opens, centimeter by achingly slow centimeter. I look up, into his eyes, and find a startling, shining clarity there. There is certainty. Certainty... and he's right. We've come to an agreement. Here, now, for us, by us. Strength in unity, and we will be united. More than that, we're reacting--finally--to the war and death and pain around us. We're alive, and neither of us... neither of us celebrate that fact. But we will. Like the fine brandy tasted after a long, hard workday.

He opens my flight suit, slips his hands in against my skin, and I have to close my eyes. He catches my chin in his teeth, and my eyes shoot open.

"Don't," he murmurs, as his hands glide up my sides to my shoulders, to push the hideous orange monstrosity away. "Watch," he finishes.

So I watch. And I kiss. And I touch. I taste. I feel. I take. And I give. I'm tasted, touched, kissed, watched. Wanted. Needed. The rhythm is steady. Light from the setting sun spills further into the room, and bodies rise. Minds mingle, entwine, mesh. Souls, bodies, minds--all become one. I've never been taken over so completely. I've never taken over so completely.

 

***

 

His dark hair grazes his shoulders and mine, too. It tickles. I try to move, but he's pinning me in, holding me to his side. His breathing has long since evened out. His strength is restored. There is nothing but the events of the day to weigh on us.

"You should go," he murmurs.

It surprises me. I turn slightly to look at him. His strong, sharp face seems softened in the gray light, more open. "You want me to leave?"

"No." He kisses my shoulder lightly. "I want you to stay. I never want you to leave again. But you should go. Colonel Fel will probably come looking for you. The two of you have a lot to talk about."

Oh. Oh, no. I stare into his eyes as the horror of it all dawns in my mind. This is... what is this? What have I done? How do I handle this? How do I tell Jag that... what Kyp and I are? What are we? And how do I tell Kyp that I want to know... I want to know what could happen with Jag? How did I get myself into this mess?

His lips brush mine, a gentle kiss. He strokes a thumb down my face, then trails those long fingers through my hair. "Do what you will, Jaina," he says softly. "Go to him. Pretend... pretend this didn't happen. I won't stand in your way, I won't complicate your life any more than I have to." He sighs softly. "I'm willing to leave this here, if that's what you want. No consequences. No... no regrets." He seems sad. No... not sad; resigned.

"You're right," I whisper back, sliding my own fingers through his hair. I meet his gaze and find in his eyes something I never thought I'd ever see in Kyp Durron's eyes: vulnerability. "No regrets. I can't regret this. But I can't just walk away, Kyp. We've..." I close my eyes briefly, unable to keep staring into that openness. "We've been through too much," I murmur. "It might be impossible for us to just walk away. I don't want to walk away." A bitter, humorless laugh escapes my lips. "I don't believe this..."

His voice is low as he says, "He's going to walk to talk to you Jaina. I think the two of you should talk and work it out--whatever this is between you, it's been building up for two years. You have something." I want to scream at him, he doesn't understand! "I want you to be happy." His voice falters. "Even if it's not with me."

I open my mouth to argue. To ask him why. What's between us is so much more. We've been building up for sixteen years. As I think the words, I realize, I don't know that. I don't know that Jag and I have nothing. I remember the first time I met him, the first conversation we had as peers. I remember his eyes as he stared at me, asking me very deliberately why I had done what I'd done. Why I'd disobeyed a direct order to save him. And I remember his kiss, and the feel of his arms around me, pressing me close.

I know that I want Kyp. But... I want Jag, too. And what about that is fair to either of them?

Kyp nuzzles my neck. He's picked up on my thoughts. "Learn what you need to know," he breathes. "Make your decision. I'll accept it, whatever it is. Don't doubt it. As long as it makes you happy. If that means--" He breathes in. "--That you choose him, so be it. If that means you take both of us..."

I close my eyes against the thought. "Betrayal. I can't do that to him."

"It's not so hard," he offers quietly, "once you get used to it. And in the end, it doesn't even make much of a difference." Silently, he adds, You're here with me, aren't you?

We're more alike than I thought, than I ever wanted to admit. But I've done it now, and I can't take it back. So I turn my face and capture his lips. I kiss him long, lingering, full of half-made promises. He hugs me tight, then releases me.

"Go," he says, and rolls to his back. "I need some real rest, anyway."

Even with that, as I move, his hand trails down my arm, feather-light, and it gives me goose bumps. I sit up, lean down to gather up the uniform. I seal it and tug on my boots, not bothering to fasten them. I'm not so tired now. I'll make it to my room fine.

By the time I slip out of the room, he's already asleep.


End file.
